King

I’m always the king of something. Ruined or celebrated,newly crowned, or just beheaded. King of the shady grassand king of the dirty sheets. I sit in the middleof the room in Decemberwith the windows open, five pills, and a razor. My life longsecret. My killing power and my stayingpower. When the erection fails, when the car almost hitsthe divider, I’m king. I wave my hand overthe ants bubbling out of the sidewalk and make them all knights,I sit at the dinner table and look into the deepdark eyes of my television, my people. I tell them the kingdomwill be remembered in dreams of gold. I tell themwhat was lost will be found. So I put on my black-whitecheckered Vans, the exact pair of shoesmy older brother wore when he was still a citizen in the world,and I go out, I go out into the streetwith my map of the dead and look for him,for the X he is,so I can put the sceptre back in his hands, take the redcloak from my shoulders and put it around his, lift the crown from my head and fit it just above his eyebrows, so I can get down on one knee, on both knees, and lower my face and whisper my lord, my master, my king.

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